


Tell the repo man

by jenny_wren



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 21:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10976115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: You're the one I love by David Gray. Sometimes a song meshes with a pairing





	Tell the repo man

Bodie watches through his drooping eye lids as Ray walks towards him in tight jeans and loose half-open shirt. He’s wearing his boots of course, because even at his most angelic Ray is a competitive little sod and he hates that extra inch of height Bodie has on him. His eyes are glowing green as the leaves with affection and challenge, his red curls are alight in the glow of the tracer arching high against the vivid blue sky.

Bodie’s eyes fall fully closed. The hot wet drench of blood soaking his fatigues has more life in it than he does. The burning bright sun and thick heavy air drop away into the falling dark and he’s back with Ray at McMahon’s wedding. 

He’d taken Ray as his plus one, claiming nobody’d take a bird to such a prime pulling ground – a lie which only succeeded through its sheer audacity – because he couldn’t face even one leave without him

When the disco was in full swing he and Ray had snuck away to the room where they’d been served dinner. The room hadn’t been cleared, the tables still cluttered with plates, wine-stained table cloths, and overflowing ashtrays. The only light was from the hallway and there was faint music from the party. 

There were so many things he could have said. Only that morning they’d stood side by side listening to the reading of marriage vows. So many pretty words. But they were only fragile, flighty things. Bodie had remained silent, just pulls Ray in close and holds his strong, warm body against him as they sway softly together across the floor. The ocean roars from an impossible distance as he dances unconcerned in the dark light of the stars with Ray.

 

CI5 is resigned when Doyle slams into work grey-faced and jittery yet again. Doyle’s moods are always erratic, worse than the weather he is. So it’s no real surprise when he snaps at Murphy,

“So we sit around on our arses until they blow us all to semtex heaven; or they surrender and get a slick lawyer to bargain their sentences down for ‘co-operation’.”

Murphy rolls his eyes, “I don’t like it any more than you do, I’d put them down myself if I could. But I don’t care how fast you think you are, it’s a kill box. We wait for Cowley and the negotiator.”

Doyle slopes off sulkily, curls bobbing in the breeze. Murphy curses some more. And they wait.

The quick buzz of an RT makes them all jump.

“In position,” says Doyle. “Covering fire would be good.”

“Stand down,” Murphy orders. “Doyle, don’t be a bloody fool.”

“Too late,” snarls Anson as he draws his gun. Doyle’s already making his run. Murphy curses again, pulls his own gun and the next long minutes are all hellfire and bullets.

When it’s silent again, that loud buzzing silence that’s more absence of noise than actual quiet, Anson says,

“You think he made it?”

The warehouse looms a huge mute shadow unwilling to give up its secrets. On one level it’s a stupid question, the loss of a response from the terrorists mean Doyle made it inside. On another level –

“Only one way to find out.” Murphy reloads and checks his gun.

“We should wait for the armoured response unit,” says Anson as he too reloads.

“Absolutely.”

They don’t. They dodge from car to car until they’re as close as they can get to the open door still swinging in the wind, then call for more covering fire and follow Doyle. 

The first spatter of blood is only halfway across the killing floor. There’s another, larger and still liquid dark, at the door where they’d caught him again as he was pinned down while snapping the lock.

“Least he kept going,” Anson offers without much hope.

They find the first dead body not far from the door. There had been a fight. Canisters knocked from the shelves, smudgy hand prints in blood and the body has a broken arm and a broken neck.

“Messy.” Doyle had been too injured to make it quick.

They find the other four bodies in rapid succession. Two neat headshots, and then one centre mass and finally one still alive doubled over a gut shot. Doyle was pistol shooting champion at the Met three years in a row but there’s only so much you can do when your arm starts to shake and your eyes go blurry because you’re in shock from slowly bleeding out.

With the scene secure they call the rest of the team to bring the Medics in. Then they track Doyle. It’s not difficult given the blood.

They find him behind a stack of boxes in a shaft of hazy sunlight. His skinny body twisting in on itself, huddled in the too big leather jacket. Stark white face tilted towards the light, faint smile on blue lips, one hand open and reaching as if to catch a sunbeam.

 

They don’t understand until they search his flat and find the faint layer of dust, the shattered mug, and the letter still open on the table. From a bloke who didn’t approve but Bodie was his mate, he’d want you to know, he’d want you to have this. And a pocket watch, _don’t get your head blown off Sunshine, R._

Near as they can tell he hadn’t been back to the flat since he got the news.

They bury him with the watch.


End file.
